


Searching for the Inner Man

by RichieBrook



Series: This Is Your Life [3]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Character Study, Depression, M/M, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16065698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichieBrook/pseuds/RichieBrook
Summary: Alex is not here right now, please leave a message after the beep.





	Searching for the Inner Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really not sure why I've been writing so much and so fast lately. Here's something that I found a bit daunting to write. Takes place in the [_This Is Your Life_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1122774) universe, right after [_Still Afloat_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874494/chapters/36985821), but can be read as a standalone. Please let me know if it’s below par because I might end up deleting it after all; haven’t made my mind up yet. Oh, and there’s a _Trainspotting_ reference in there somewhere because it fit so nicely. I also shamelessly borrowed the title of the chapter from which I took the reference for the title of this fic.
> 
> (I know all works in this series have a depression tag, but maybe a trigger warning is appropriate for this one? I don’t know. This is more or less a feeble attempt at a description of it and it made me a bit sad, so please consider yourself warned if this is the kind of thing that gets you. I’m not sure why I keep writing these.)

I must admit I question my own authenticity at times. See, I’ve been back home for a while now and it is considerably more comfortable than being on tour. I had never in my life been so eager to take a break, holding on tightly with both hands to the idea that once I’d be back home – or at Miles’ home, I should say, because that is where I am and where I will remain for now – I’d magic up the will to snap out of the haze that’s had its fingers wrapped tightly around my throat for months now. I imagined coming home to what Miles had promised me – home cooked meals, motorcycle rides, cosy nights in, mind-blowing sex. I got all of it, too. Didn’t even have to ask. But within me, I have yet to sense a change. I have encouraged myself again and again to go for runs, make breakfast, to read books. But it’s as if at the same time, I’ve been sabotaging myself with all the strength I can muster. I’ve allowed the haze to stay right where it is. I’ve allowed its fingers to creep up around my neck time and again. They are forgiving at times, those fingers; they’ll leave me be when I’m asleep, then tighten their grip as soon as I wake. Come out and play, Alex, they seem to say. Come out and dive into this world that is brand new to you. A one-dimensional, simple world where you can sit around all day without feeling a thing. How often haven’t you wished that you’d stop feeling, feeling anything at all? Not the sorry trembling in your chest after yet another breakup, not the expiration date of the music you intended to be smart and subtle but turned out too clever for its own good, not the tell-tale ticking of the clock. You’re running out of time, Aly, they whisper, you’re running out of time.

Except really, I’m not running. I’m not going anywhere at all. I try to take it easy, one step at the time one breath at the time. I make a doctor’s appointment as soon as we’re back home, Miles and I. It’s a very brief visit as Miles encourages me to be as frank as I can be, so I tell him how I’ve been feeling with my eyes on my lap. I get the referral right away. You’re running out of time, the voices remind me, lest you get over yourself already. There’s only so long that you can keep up the pretention of just being sad, and once the world figures you out and realises that you let him slip – that you left pretentious yet relatable Alex Turner behind somewhere at the start of the tour, they’ll spit you right out.

My therapist has her office just down the street and every week I pass by one of Miles’ favourite shops on the way there. On the first day, I get him a pair of new Gucci loafers to add to his collection on my way back. Call it shopping therapy. They’re the velvet kind that really shouldn’t be worn anywhere but on stage, so Miles wears them out all day every day. I watch him brush them clean in the evenings sometimes, curled up in me usual armchair with a cup of tea in me hands, and he’ll give me one of those grins that I will never get used to. I doubt it’s about the loafers for him but if it were I’d buy him a thousand pairs more. In the mornings, the prospect of having him come home to me at the end of the day is what helps me get out of bed. I allow myself to look forward to it each and every day. It’s the one vice, except for the very occasional drink, that I allow myself. Paying Miles back for that would cost me a hell of a lot more than a few pairs of loafers. I’m not sure how to go about it properly.

Today’s a Friday. I know it’s a Friday because it’s the day after the night that my phone courteously reminds me of my appointment at noon today. The therapist’s office is familiar to me by now but my reluctance to go there never ceases. I’m not a speaker and when asked about the fog in my brain I fumble for words and stumble over them as I attempt to form a description of what’s been chasing me. I use ‘hibernation’ as a synonym for it at one point, to which she asks me if I feel like I’ve gone into survival mode. Sure, I say, sure, yes, perhaps, could be. I try to preserve my energy, I explain. I try not to worry about the fog not passing. I’m just waiting it out. She wants to know if I think waiting it out is working for me so far, because really, it’s been months now, and I can see her getting frustrated with me. I’m yet another Hollywood star gone numb. She’s seen and spoken to dozens of me, I reckon. I stare at an invisible spot on the wall behind her, watching my thoughts dance against the white backdrop, having all the fun that I can’t have. I don’t mind the overthinking, never have. It’s the haze that worries me.

To make up for my lack of progress I start rambling, blabbering about all the reasons as to why I deserve this, or why we shouldn’t be taking it seriously as really, I’m a perfectly healthy, affluent individual. I have a home and a career. I’m in a relationship. She doesn’t buy it. She asks me how I feel about me (indifferent), the band (indifferent, ‘but I’m bloody proud of them, I am’), Miles (‘sometimes he smiles this big goofy smile at me that I like’), and about returning to LA after the tour (‘I considered going back home, to Sheffield that is, for a bit’, I say). We’re digging deeper and deeper whereas I feel my brain is hiding out just below the surface, rather than all the way down there. I’d much rather get a ladder and just climb out of the pit we’re digging. But there is no ladder. Just questions and very few answers. I try my hardest to let her analyse me, but I’m cautious. I can’t get into my own head, and I have trouble letting her do it for me. She’s fishing for answers that aren’t really there, moulding my stammering into theories that I don’t identify with. I remain wary of her. I remain wary that soon I’ll be giving into her, allowing myself to be conned into believing in whatever theory she decides to stick onto me. Wary that soon I’ll be joining her in the search for a holy grail of sorts, for something that makes me tick. At some point I offer to just write down my answers to each question, knowing the words come easier when I write; knowing she won’t be able to twist and turn them to fit her theories if I do, but then I can’t seem to do that properly either. You might be genetically predisposed to depression, she muses, and I murmur something about being in my thirties and not having been through anything like this before. Hoping she’ll cut our appointment short, I play the Hollywood star gone crazy card. Perhaps writing the last album made me predisposed to depression, I mutter and it comes out like a sneer, but I don’t mean it like that. It was a philosophical one, I add to make things worse; very personal that one. I’m not here to do some light-hearted soul-searching, let alone to _find myself_. I shiver. No, I say, I’m here to get over meself. I must have done something to get to this point and I intend to make it right.

She tells me that that’s not how it works, that it’s not my fault, and the questions continue.

why did I start feeling numb on tour was I nervous was I anxious was I sad was I scared did I feel abandoned did I feel abandoned by Miles did I abandon Miles what makes me feel better what do I expect from the process what would need to change in me life for me to feel better what would my life be like if I woke up tomorrow feeling completely like myself again am I still drinking so much and eating so little why did I get a haircut last week what did I have for dinner last night what did I do to take care of meself today did I take a shower did I go to bed before midnight and wake up before noon

I’ll have you know, by the way, that I did wake up before noon. Either way, when I come home after a solid hour of digging up dust I am greeted by the neat row of Miles’ loafers by the door. As if they’ve been waiting for me. They’re my favourite thing about the house, welcoming me back like that. I can depend on them to stay right where they are. The new pair is missing, as per usual. It’ll be back soon.

The idea of having to take off my own shoes and add them to the row repels me, makes waves of reluctance roll on my empty stomach. I keep them on, and my coat. The living room is my next stop. My steps are measured out and careful, as if I’ll bump into the hard edges of the bar or coffee table if I take my mind off dodging them for a single second. The armchair farthest away from the window is my favourite chair. It’s plush and soft and enveloped in a cosy semidarkness. It looks like a chair in which better people than myself would write lyrics or compose. People of sound mind and sound motives. I don’t have any motives, not anymore. I just get up in the mornings and go to bed at night because it’s what we do. Each day is every day. None of them are good or bad. All of it just is. And I just am, in the midst of it. It’s like being on a very tame rollercoaster in an empty amusement park. On we go, and on we go.

Sometimes I dig when I’m at home.

what caused this was it the drink was it the drugs was it a breakup wouldn’t that be pathetic why can’t I get out why won’t it leave how long before Miles leaves if it doesn’t how did I get here why won’t it stop for I need it to stop I need to be Alex again but instead I’m stuck here being the stranger in me own head dancing on me own idiotic thoughts, stomping on them, trampling them, hoping they’ll turn to ash before I stop caring before Miles stops caring before the invisible hand closes around my neck tightly enough for me to truly become scared of what is to come

I try not to dig when I’m at home. Sometimes I drink when I do. Sometimes I yell at Miles when I do. I’m really not that scared, anyway. I would very much like to get out, though.

I sit in my chair and let the familiar fog get to me, wrapping me in a comforting blanket of nothingness that is always there but keeps catching me by surprise. It’s not the kind of blanket I tend to expect. Depression equals darkness they say, but there are no dark blankets. Just blankets of nothingness and senselessness and futility that swallow me and hide me wholly – Alex is not here right now, please leave a message after the beep. I walk around like a puppet on strings. Sometimes I doubt even the strings are there. That’s when I keep on my shoes and my coat and sit down in the armchair farthest away from the window. I don’t bother with turning on the lights.

Miles took a few days off after we got home from the Monkeys tour. I don’t think I’ve been shagged, snogged and embraced as much in my entire life as I was during those few days. He’s the smoothest talker when it’s just us, but it comes from a good place. The same place from which he sometimes decides that we should dim the lights and light some candles. Makes me own romantic heart beat a little faster, that. He’s back to writing music now, spending most of his time in the studio. He texts me once or twice a day, sends me a snippet or two every once in a while, asking for feedback. I know he does it more for me than for himself, as it’s still early on in the writing process and he really doesn’t need any help. I never reply.

The remnants of our night in are still on the coffee table. Half a bottle of red on a coaster, empty dinner plates, a stack of vinyl and CDs. I leave the music and the bottle as I’m pretty sure I’ll be needing those later on, but get up to collect the dishes. I tended not to bother at first, but Miles works hard and gets home tired, and I don’t work hard. I wash up the dishes, there’s static in my ears. The water’s too hot and burns me hands, and I watch it happen with eyes that refuse to blink. It’s only five. I could go out, clean my bike, buy groceries, go for a walk. I could stay in, play the guitar, watch a movie, read a book, cook dinner. I put the dishes away, button my coat and curl up in my chair, melt into it, fit into just right. I don’t put on music and don’t drink the wine for I don’t think I can stand the loudness caused by either. I fall asleep soon after.

Miles’ place is lovely. It has cosy chairs and guitars and stacks of DVDs and pictures on the wall. There is a sense of normalcy here than I could never manage to create at home. I live just a few blocks away but I haven’t seriously considered going back. I went there on the very first day that we came back here, to collect a few changes of clothes, a tired Miles in tow. We can’t go around sharing clothes, I told him, tugging at the white Adidas tracksuit jacket I was wearing as if to prove a point. I had no point to make, and having Miles ask for it back the very next day tugged at me heart. He hasn’t worn it since. As if to prove a point.

My dreams are feverish, if they really are dreams, for I’m often mostly awake. Sometimes the nothingness wraps me in its arms like it’s all I could ever wish for and I drift away all peacefully like that. Mostly however it claws at me, tries to rip me open from the inside out. When I slip away from under the covers at night I feel ants crawl over my bare feet, birds peck at my shoulder, bees sting my forehead. I wake up with bad hangovers caused by dream rather than drink and my fingers curled tightly around Miles’ wrist. I really do feel like I should write a song about it, but none of it seems particularly poetic. On some days I lie in bed. On others I cry my eyes out until they’re red and raw, but I can’t seem to catch ‘raw’ in words other than that one. I have no words. No songs, either.

Miles has many words, and songs. He’s always speaking and when he isn’t speaking he’s singing. I often close my eyes and drift on the cadence of his voice. It brings me closer to the surface. Not quite there, but close enough. If he’s aware that I’m not quite there with him, he doesn’t let that knowledge slip. He treats me like I am right here, as if there’s no fog or invisible blanket separating us. He never waits for the beep and I hope he’ll never start waiting. I don’t want him to have to wait for me ever again.

It’s nine. The velvet loafers are back. I pass them on me way to the toilet after I wake up, then follow the scent of dinner into the kitchen. Miles greets me with a smile. He has already changed out of his jeans and button-up, and is wearing a grey, soft looking tracksuit. I reach out tentatively and touch it just above his elbow, brushing my fingers over the material. You were asleep, he says, and I didn’t want to wake you. I nod once, twice, kiss him on the lips and ask him how I can help. He hands me a bowl of vegetables, a cutting board and a knife. It’s the sort of mundane task that calms me mind, and I set to work, eyes on me hands. I find it hard to look at him and so I concentrate on the task at hand as I ask Miles how his day was. It was good, he says, and steals a piece of bell pepper, popping it into his mouth. He looks happy and alert and _there_. He’s more real than my own hands, carefully dicing the bell pepper. He’s close to finishing this song he’s been working on, he says, and could you stop by the studio some time next week to give your opinion, Al? I nod. The idea of going to the studio makes me hopeful, even though I’m not planning on writing anything meself. I’m all for sitting there and listening, which might not be a bad sign at all. Miles smiles his thanks. How was your appointment today, he wants to know, and I shrug my shoulders. I don’t tell him about the ladder and the digging because there’s not much to say, but I do tell him the fog still doesn’t seem to want to lift. He comes up next to me and holds me close for a moment, as we both know that in my case being touched doesn’t just feel nice; it also tends to function like a hot cup of coffee, and allows me to surface for a bit. He doesn’t drag it out because he knows I won’t let him. When he pulls back I reach for him mechanically. He allows me to keep my pride by pretending he doesn’t notice and staying just out of reach. I start dicing a tomato.

Miles puts on my favourite Beatles record. I pour us glasses of wine. Both the record and the alcohol won’t provoke me into spiralling into dramatics with him there. We sit down by the table in the dining room and eat and drink quietly. Even Miles seems out of things to say for a moment. He eats faster than I do, always has. I watch him fondly. What, he asks. Nothing, I say, and smile. It’s during moments like these that I feel the air might clear all on its own again, that I might finally stop kidding myself, but it’s been a while of tricking myself into numbness now and I’m pretty sure that it’s just wistful thinking. I take the dishes into the kitchen, putting them into the dishwasher rather than washing them up myself this time, and put on the kettle to make tea. The normalcy of it makes my skin crawl as I feel it makes me an even worse liar. Even the cups of tea are in on the pact, proving me that I'm right there, _making them_ , but simply pretending not to be.

You need to promise me you’ll kick me out of the house if I get in too deep, I tell Miles in bed that night, and he flat-out laughs. Will you ever stop making things harder on yourself, Aly? We’re fine, aren’t we. I like to think we’re pretty damn good at living together.

I nod. So do I. I press my nose into his collarbone and sense an invisible wall between us even when I press a kiss to his bare shoulder. My lips brush over his skin. My teeth graze his neck and he shivers. I can’t help meself and close my lips around a spot that I know is particularly sensitive and sucking softly. He hums appreciatively and I feel him grow hard against my leg, but I can’t tonight. I just want him to have a barely-there bruise. Kind of like when he did the same to me right before the last Monkeys gig. It’s only fair. I really don’t think they look all that terrible, anyway. Can I wear your white Adidas jacket tomorrow, I ask, as his hands come up to explore my torso. I really do enjoy feeling those fingers map out invisible patterns on my skin – patterns that I can still feel even after he lifts those fingers and wraps his arm around me instead. Miles hums quietly. If you’d like, he mutters, but he’s smiling. 

I don’t sleep particularly well that night, but forbid myself to dig and keep a bleary-eyed Miles awake by tracing his arm and side with my fingers instead. He seems content and watches me through half-lidded eyes. What’s it like in your head right now, he asks, and I stare at him for a moment. I don’t answer right away. Drag my hand upwards until it reaches the short hairs at the nape of his neck. I run my fingers through it. What’s it like in yours, I counter, and he knits his brows. My hand reaches his cheek, then his lips, and he presses a playful kiss to my fingers. Quiet, mostly, he then whispers; peaceful, perhaps. I want to know why. His frown deepens and he shrugs a shoulder. Is he predisposed to feeling peaceful, perhaps? Did something happen today to make him feel so content? He shakes his head. 

Sometimes things just are the way they are, he murmurs. And things are really good for me right now. Things are crystal clear for me.

I touch his neck and the bruise, his collarbones, and move my hand to his arm again. I’ve been driven by the idea that there needs to be something behind my feeling like this. Am I genetically predisposed, was there a breakup or a drink too many? Maybe things simply aren’t really good for me right now. Maybe they aren’t crystal clear. And most likely, pretentious, relatable Alex Turner is still hiding in the back of me mind somewhere. I just have to get hold of him again. After the beep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :) Please feel free to point out any errors, or to give constructive criticism. I'll happily change this one up a little, because I had no clue what I was doing writing it.
> 
> (Also, I’m still very open to (happy!) prompts. :) You can message me on Tumblr @memoiriarty.)


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